Phoebe wasn't the most athletic of creatures under the best of circumstances. "Pooh!" Phoebe cried, taking off after her just as the small white dog bumped against the slender metal legs that supported a towering arrangement of gladiolus. The dog had been restrained too long, and she began a wild dash through the crowd, yapping shrilly, her tail wagging so wildly the pom-pom looked as if it might fly off at any moment and whistle through the air like Oddjob's hat. Pooh gave a yap and leapt free of her arms. Guessing correctly that she wanted Pooh as a distraction device, he stepped forward, but just as she took the animal, a maintenance truck that had entered the cemetery backfired, startling the poodle. He realized how nervous she was when she turned and held her arms out to him. "I'm certain he was." Each prolonged syllable she uttered was a breathlessly delivered promise of sexual debauchery, a promise Viktor knew all too well Phoebe had no intention of keeping. "Bert surely did love the game," Calebow continued, "and he was a good man to work for."
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